


heard by the universe

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 4+1, Food Critic/Chef AU, I'm Drunk and Scared of Heights and We're Stuck on a Ferris Wheel Together AU, M/M, Star Trek Secret Santa, coffee shop AU, florist/tattoo artist au, post star trek beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8996878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: four lives james t kirk and leonard mccoy could've lived--and the one they did





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SadieYuki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieYuki/gifts).



> here's my contribution to 50yearsofstartrek secret santa exchange! a mckirk collection of fics written for tumblr user sadieyuki, who requested jim, bones, or both, in really any combination. decided to throw together a couple fun aus, with a little last dash of canon to wrap it all up.
> 
> hope you like it!!

He’s drunk.

Really drunk.

So drunk, he oughta be embarrassed, or ashamed.

Definitely shouldn’t be in public.

And yet… he is.

Leonard McCoy groans and presses his face against the cool glass, the pressure and chill soothing his headache. He catches the stench of his own booze-breath when he fogs up the window with his exhale, but he’s too drunk to care. Well, he does wrinkle his nose at the smell but other than that, nothing. He sighs again and lets his eyes flutter shut against the bright, dazzling lights of the carnival outside the little tin box he’s holed himself up in.

Okay, it’s more than a tin box, but not by much. It’s a carriage on the enormous ferris wheel that he got in several stops ago, and no one has bothered to drag him out. At first, he told himself he’d get in to face his fear of heights. But when it’d first stopped at the top he ended up downing half his bottle of whiskey, and well.

Here he is.

 

He’s lightly dozing by the time the wheel comes to a stop again, and is really only woken up by the snap of the door opening. He looks over lazily and watches as someone stumbles into the box with him. He stifles a groan and bout of bile when the whole thing rocks, and closes his eyes again.

The door shuts again and the carriage moves slowly to allow the next one to be loaded.

“You alright?” The other person—a man, deep voice, sandy blonde hair, pretty—asks.

Leonard just groans noncommittally.

A laugh answers him. “Gonna take that as a no. What’cha drinking there?” He gestures to the whiskey hanging in Leonard’s grasp.

He mumbles out an answer, then after a beat he holds it out in offering. The stranger waves him off. “If I drink any more I’ll probably barf.”

The word makes Leonard’s stomach lurch. Or maybe that’s the fact that the ferris wheel is slowly rotating again. “I may throw up on you,” he warns, despite the fact the other man is across from him, far enough away to steer clear.

Another laugh, and Leonard relaxes. “You’re a ray of sunshine,” the other man teases. “Jim Kirk,” he says in a tone that is probably normally accompanied by a hand extended for a shake. Leonard is grateful that they can skip the nicety.

“Len’rd McCoy,” he grunts.

The other man—Jim, Leonard thinks, _Jim_ —beams. “I think this is gonna be the start of a beautiful friendship.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “Gotta come up with something better to call you than _Leonard_ , though.”

Leonard squints. “What’s wrong with my name?”

Jim snickers. “Nothing, just… it’s so _old_.”

“Hate t’break it to you, kid, but I _am_ old.”

Jim scoffs. “Please,” he waves off the words. “How about you tell me why you’re drunk as shit on a ferris wheel on this lovely summer night?

Leonard groans. “Anniversary of m’divorce.” He barrels on, words falling like water from his lips now that he’s started. Feels good, especially when he hasn’t talked about the whole mess for a while now. “Wife left me, took damn near everything. All I got left is m’bones and m’whiskey.” He raises the bottle to his lips and barely manages to take off the cap before taking a swig.

Jim looks thoughtful again, and something tells Leonard that’s not a good thing. The silence stretches though, and Leonard sinks into the somewhat rhythmic, somewhat sickening sway of the carnival ride he’s planted himself on. He starts to doze again, waking only when the whole thing groans to a stop—at the top, again.

Against his better judgement, he looks out the window and immediately regrets the decision. He winces, hisses, and closes his eyes tight enough to hurt.

“Bones, you okay?” Jim asks softly, and suddenly he’s so close. Leonard is too drunk for this, especially when Jim plucks the whiskey from his grip and rests a comforting hand on his knee.

“Bones?” Leonard asks instead.

“All you got left is your bones,” Jim parrots back. His thumb is distractingly hot against Leonard’s knee, but Leonard can’t feel his hands—or his arms in general, thank god for alcohol—so he can’t push the touch away. “Are you okay?” He asks again.

Leonard keeps his eyes shut. “Don’t like heights.”

Jim’s thumb, stroking comfortingly, pauses. “Come again?”

Leonard frowns, still refusing to open his eyes. “Don’t like heights, thought it’d take my mind off the shitty anniversary if I tried to overcome the fear or, fuck, I dunno. Instead, I got really drunk.” He opens one eye, and glares at Jim. “You’re awfully nosy,” he snaps.

Jim doesn’t recoil, not at all. It’s an odd change of pace for Leonard when nearly everyone recoils from him, even when he’s not quite as sour as he is now.

“Something tells me you could use a friend,” Jim says quietly. He rises and sits beside Leonard now. “How about after this ride we get outta here? You could probably use a strong cup of coffee.”

Leonard wants to argue or fight. Jim’s entire personality screams ‘trouble,’ and Leonard knows the man will be a thorn in his side for years to come if he caves now. But in this moment, Jim is less of a thorn and more of a gentle, soothing warmth. Leonard pushes himself away from the glass and lets himself fall against Jim instead.

Jim takes it in stride, just wraps an arm around Leonard and squeezes. “I know a great bakery that’s open at ungodly hours, we can head there. You can crash at my place if you need to.”

Leonard thinks to his barren apartment then nods without hesitation. “Yeah, please,” he mumbles.

Jim’s fingers tangle in Leonard’s hair, comb through his knotted locks. “Not a problem, Bones. I make a mean hangover breakfast.”

Leonard yawns, and grins as he says, “don’t call me that.”


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jim is a pretty decent chef (if he may say so himself)
> 
> leonard is a pretty intimidating food critic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do not claim to know a darn thing about actual food critics. this is purely indulgent fiction, and probably not at all realistic. enjoy!

Jim watches, fidgeting nervously, as the first dish of many are brought to the world-renowned critique sitting in the best booth in the house. He watches as the guy gives the dish a thorough once over, takes some notes, tucks a napkin into the collar of his shirt before finally reaching for silverware. He looks less pompous than Jim anticipated, and he can’t decide if that makes things better or worse. He wonders if the guy has some sexy accent—like Gordon Ramsey, or Robert Irvine—and then admonishes himself silently for even considering anything about the men to be sexy.

The longer he stares, though, the less he cares that he should probably fear this man. The guy is hot, with ruffled hair and tired eyes, five o’clock shadow. He eats carefully, though not especially daintily. Every so often he pauses to write some notes, even taps his chin with his pen thoughtfully.

Jim pulls himself away long enough to finish the second and third courses—one a simple but delicious soup, the other a plate of sushi, his own personal favorite. He hovers near the kitchen doors and watch as the second course is set in the front of the critique. Then the third.

There’s no discernable change in the man’s demeanor as he eats, and Jim doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad sign. When he realizes the man is almost finished with the third plate, Jim goes into a state of mild panic making sure the fourth dish is finished—and it is, because his sous chefs are amazing and he’s taught them well.

He busies himself with perfecting the fifth and sixth courses rather than torturing himself by watching the man eat. By the time he’s placed the last elegant sprig of mint on his perfect ice cream dish, the last course, he feels just about dead on his feet. Which is absurd, because making these seven meals was nowhere near as difficult as a busy, normal night. He almost wishes there were other customers around, so he’d have more to distract himself with.

He refuses to watch the critic eat the last meal, so he turns away from the door once he sends the waiter out. It feels a little like signing his death warrant, even though he’s plenty confident in his cooking. He paces through the kitchen and is thankful when all the rest of his staff steer clear of him and don’t comment.

 

Eventually, one of the waiters stops him. “He wants to speak with you,” Pavel tells him.

Jim gulps audibly but nods. “Alright.” He pats at his hair and brushes whatever wrinkles he can from his apron. He looks at Pavel, who gives him an awkward shrug of approval. Jim groans but makes a beeline for the kitchen doors anyway.

He slips into booth seat across from the critic—Leonard McCoy, Jim rolls the name around in his head for the first time all night—and waits.

Leonard is still taking notes, pausing without looking up before scribbling some more. He bites his lip at one point and Jim finds himself drawn to the gesture, wonders what his cooking tastes like on this man’s chapped lips. Again, he internally chastises himself but only half-heartedly.

Finally, Leonard looks up.

When he smiles, Jim damn near faints.

“It’s nice to meet you, James Kirk.” Leonard extends a hand across the table and Jim shakes it, dumbstruck.

“Call me Jim,” he says numbly.

Leonard just nods. “I’m Leonard McCoy, but you know that.”

Jim nods.

“Look, there’s not a lot I can discuss, it’ll all be in my article. And I don’t normally stick around too long to talk with the chefs. I’m here to judge the food, not to get to know the person behind it.” He shrugs. “Not the nicest thing in the world, but then, neither am I.” He laughs to himself.

Jim just stares.

Leonard doesn’t seem to notice.

“Anyway, I don’t normally do this, but I saw you watchin’ me,” he looks at Jim with such sincerity that Jim’s already short-stopped brain goes full-on fried. “And I want you to know you got nothin’ to worry about.”

Jim blinks. “Uh.”

Leonard seems amused. “God, you’re young,” he shakes his head. “I’m serious, kid. You got real talent, and I had a helluva time pickin’ what dishes to try out. If I could, I’d try the whole menu, you’ve got some real interesting things on there.”

Jim’s chest burns with pride but he still can’t seem to make words happen.

Leonard carries on. “Don’t tell my editor I said this, but it’ll be a glowin’ review. And even if it wasn’t, if I was dumb as a bag o’rocks, and wrote a shit review for this place—wouldn’t matter. You’re downright talented and that’s plain as day.” He extends his hand again, and Jim returns the handshake meekly.

“Thank you,” Jim finally manages to spew. He can’t stop staring and blinking and gaping. “That, that means a lot. Really.”

Leonard nods and waves away the words. “Don’t mention it, just keep doing what you’re doing and you’re gonna be a hit.”

Jim files the words away, memorizes them in the soft southern drawl of Leonard’s voice. “I kind of want to have sex with you.”

That startles Leonard right out of his easy demeanor. “Pardon me?” He asks, amused and uncertain.

Jim slaps a hand over his own mouth. He scrambles to stand and leaves Leonard sitting there. He hurries back to the kitchen and contemplates the merits of locking himself in the meat freezer.

By the time he’s decided it’s _probably_ not worth it, Pavel is back at his side. “He is gone,” he tells Jim. “But he asked me to give this to you.” Pavel hands over a sheet of small notebook paper.

He unfolds it slowly, uneasily.

 

_Call me._

Below that, a phone number.

Below _that_ , his name— _and_ a smiley face, of all things.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on a random prompt i found--person one keeps spelling person two's name wrong on their coffee cups... person two gets revenge by mangling person one's name whenever they speak to each other

“It’s Leonard,” he says sharply, eyeing the pen in the barista’s hand wearily. He’s been coming to this café for upwards of three years, no issues and decent coffee, but lately… Ever since this new barista started, Leonard has run into nothing but trouble. “L-e-o-n-a-r-d.”

The barista nods dismissively. He scrawls it on there but Leonard can’t see if it’s actually correct. The barista passes the cup along so that the drink can get started, then plugs the charges into the register. “That’ll be two-seventy-five.”

Leonard forks over a five-dollar bill and says, “keep the change,” which makes the kid beam. He’s a cute kid—kid is a loose term, given he’s probably twenty-five or so to Leonard’s thirty-one. Cute kid though, charming smile, dimples that put Shirley Temple to shame, but damn does he suck at getting names right.

As he shuffles over to where they put up the finished drinks, Leonard wonders if it’s just a _him_ thing, or if the barista does it to everyone. He imagines the kid must, unless there’s some sort of grudge that Leonard doesn’t know about.

“Lawrence!” One of the baristas calls out. No one in the café moves, though a few people look up to do the cursory people-watch, to see who’s grabbing their drink.

Leonard looks around as dread pools in his gut. Rolling his eyes, he waits.

“Lawrence with the medium black coffee, two pumps of caramel?”

Leonard grits his teeth and nods, walking over to where the drink sits. “That’s me.” He picks up the cup and nods politely. As he leaves, he shoots a glare at the barista that took his order. All he gets back in return is an oddly endearing, dopey grin.

Leonard fumes the whole way to work.

 

The next time he goes in, he’s got a _plan_.

He orders his usual, gives his name and spells it again for good measure. Like always, the kid nods along and scribbles god-knows-what on the side of the cup before passing it down the assembly line. He reads off the familiar total, and Leonard forks over a fiver and says—

“Keep the change, Jimbo.”

The kid startles, nearly tears the five-dollar bill in half when he tries to take it from Leonard’s grasp. He meets Leonard eyes and squints. Leonard nods to the little nametag. “That’s what it’s short for, isn’t it?” It reads, in neat-scrawl, _Jim_.

He walks away without another word, and isn’t at all surprised when someone calls out, “medium black coffee, two pumps caramel, for Lorenzo!”

 

It becomes a _thing_ for them.

Leonard can’t decide if it makes things better or worse, honestly.

Better, because it visibly throws Jim off, which delights Leonard endlessly.

Worse, because now he knows Jim is _definitely_ fucking with him.

 

“Thanks, Jimothy,” Leonard pretends to tip his hat toward Jim before strutting over to wait for his drink. Jim watches him for a long moment before turning away.

Today, Jim’s coworker calls out, “coffee for Legolas!”

 

“Always a pleasure, Jimmy.”

Jim bristles, and Leonard marks a win on his mental tally.

Until, at least, someone calls out, “Longfellow! Coffee, two pumps caramel for Longfellow!”

 

By the two-month mark, he’s running out of creative ways to slaughter the name ‘Jim.’ Leonard takes to keeping a list of names on his phone, both of what he calls Jim and what Jim writes on his drinks. He’s determined to catch Jim repeating one, and to keep from making the same mistake himself. Plus, sometimes in a slow moment in the hospital, a great name will come to Leonard and he’s got to write it down.

 

It’s after a hellishly long night on-call at the hospital that the whole thing finally ends. Leonard trudges into the coffee shop with his eyes barely open. He’s too tired to even think of making coffee at home so he’s subjecting himself to Jim for the sake of some caffeine before he goes to bed and passes out.

He waves his hand around in a way he hopes conveys ‘my usual’ because the thought of speaking is worse than literally anything else Leonard can think of. Jim gives him a funny look but Leonard is too tired to comment, too tired to do anything more than pay and reply gruffly, “keep the change, Jim.”

He shuffles over to wait for his drink and nearly dozes off where he stands. It’s then that he realizes it’s blessedly quiet around him, and a quick check to his watch tells him that’s because it’s seven on a Saturday morning and everyone in their right mind is probably at home sleeping. Lucky bastards.

He blinks and looks over just as Jim steps up to the counter with his drink. Jim passes it over silently, and Leonard can’t help but check the name scrawled on the side.

_Leonard_.

He raises an eyebrow at Jim, holds the cup up curiously.

“You look like shit,” Jim explains.

Leonard half-laughs, half-groans. “Thanks, kid.”

Jim beams. “You’re welcome,” he replies easily. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Can’t, doctor.” All the stress of the day and a half prior hit him hard, suddenly, and he sways where he stands. “I oughta go or m’gonna pass out right here.”

Jim’s brow furrows in concern. “You okay to make it home?”

“Do I gotta choice?” He shrugs after speaking. “Not a long walk, this should keep me awake long enough to at least make it to my couch.”

Jim holds out his hand and makes a ‘gimme gimme’ gesture. When Leonard doesn’t move, Jim sighs. “Phone.”

Leonard obeys, because he’s interested in where this is going. When Jim passes the phone back, Leonard catches the fading notification of ‘text sent.’

“Text me when you get home, okay?”

Leonard just nods, and goes when Jim waves him off happily.

 

**_> >_ ** _Hey kid, home safe._

**_< <_ ** _good. dinner tomorrow, 7pm?_

Leonard stares at the text, and manages to tap out a _sure, why the hell not_ before he’s out like a light.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the ever classic florist/tattoo artist au

Jim stares though the window at the store across the street. It’s certainly a tattoo parlor, the window decal says so. Somehow, though, Jim just can’t bring himself to quite believe it. Maybe it’s because he never sees anyone go in or out—though he does see people _in_ there, just never seems them enter or leave. Maybe it’s because the guy evidently running the store looks like someone’s dad, the way he dresses. Maybe it’s because this is a small hick-town in the middle of nowhere and the thought that a tattoo parlor even exists somewhere so negligible kind of blows Jim’s mind.

It’s not like the same can be said for his own store. He’d inherited it from his mother when she decided to retire, and she’d gotten it from her own mom. It’s a family business, which is exactly what one would expect to take up their podunk town. Sure, flower shops are maybe a dying breed, but isn’t that what small towns are for? Dying breeds of business like homely bakeries and video rental stores.

Yeah. Jim’s storefront fits right in. The tattoo parlor across the street… not so much.

 

Jim looks up when the bell to his store chimes, and only barely restrains himself from gasping.

It’s _him_ , Tattoo-Parlor-Guy, looking more than a little worse for wear. Jim opens his mouth to greet him, ask him what he’s in for today, or maybe finally ask just _what_ inspired the guy to open up his shop in this town of all places.

The guy beats him to it. “I need the best bouquet that says _fuck you_ while still lookin’ real pretty.”

Jim blinks. “Okay.” He flits about the store gathering up the necessary flowers, arranges them in a way that’s pleasing and non-threatening. Unlike their meaning. He wraps them in plastic and ties the bottom around the stems with a small piece of ribbon, standard procedure.

He passes the bouquet along, then waits.

The man stares back. “How much do I owe you?” He asks slowly, like Jim’s an idiot.

He shrugs. “You look like you could use a break.”

The line of the man’s shoulders slump. “Ain’t that the truth.” Despite his words, his digs out his wallet and flips it open. “Really, though, this is nice and seems like an awful lot to be givin’ away for nothing.”

Jim pretends to consider the offer but really, he already knows where he wants this conversation to go. “What’s your name?”

The man seems startled, but answers none the less. “Leonard McCoy.” He pauses, as though debating continuing. “Friends call me Bones, though.”

Jim _definitely_ wants to know the story there, and it must show on his face. Leonard sighs, but he’s smiling. He sets the bouquet gently on the counter between them and then rolls back the dad-plaid of his shirt. On his forearms are intricate designs, ones that clearly cover far more of his arm than Jim can see. He can make out bones, skulls, some decorated or fantastically colored, some disturbingly realistic but just as fascinating.

Bones adds, “whole story there, but that would take a while.”

Jim’s curiosity burns even brighter, now. “Why did you decide to set up a tattoo shop in this town?”

Leonard seems amused by the question. “Another long story, kid, and you probably don’t wanna hear me rant.”

Jim shakes his head. “I do. I’ve been wondering for _ages_. You’re across the street, how could I _not_ wonder? You fascinate me,” Jim admits. “I wanna know more about you.”

Leonard blinks in surprise. “Really now.”

Jim feels embarrassment scorch his cheeks and the back of his neck, but doesn’t back down. “Yes, really.”

Leonard again falls silent, face twisting into a look Jim is quick coming to know as the man’s ‘thinking face.’ It’s endearing, and hilarious, and Jim wonders if he could snap a quick pic with his phone without Leonard noticing. Given that Leonard’s eyes haven’t moved from Jim for a solid minute or so, Jim figures probably not. Maybe some other time.

“I mean,” Leonard eventually starts up again. “If you wanna come by, I could show you around, tell you about it.”

Jim grins. “That’d be great. I’ve never been in a tattoo parlor before.”

Again, surprise coats Leonard’s expression. “Never?”

Jim shrugs. “Never thought about it. Besides, I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never seen any parlor except yours pop up in these parts.” He leans on the counter, mindful of the bouquet, and hopes he comes across more flirty and less deranged (he’s often told it’s a fine line with him).

“Alright, then,” Leonard agrees. “I, uh. Got some shit I gotta take care of today,” he picks up the bouquet again by way of explanation. “I don’t have any appointments tonight though.”

“I close up shop around eight,” Jim answers the unspoken question.

Leonard nods. “That works. Just come on by, doors unlocked till two, usually.”

“It’s a date,” Jim says.

An awkward pause blooms, but again Jim refuses to take it back or retreat. He waits, and after a while Leonard just shrugs. “See you then… uh.”

“Jim! I’m Jim. Jim Kirk.”

Leonard snorts, then he hesitates. “Do—for the bouquet, should I, uh?” He stares at the flowers cautiously.

“As long as there’s some coffee tonight to go with that story, we’ll call it even. Deal?”

Leonard purses his lips. “Jim, really, that’s not necessary.”

“I’m not struggling for cash, Bones,” the nickname rolls off his tongue easily, so much so he’s startled it happened at all. “Call it helping out a fellow small business owner. Or a friend, that works too.”

Leonard visibly concedes, even going so far as to hold up a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. As much coffee as you can stomach and life story, fair payment.”

Jim just beams. “See you tonight,” he reiterates. His stomach rolls eagerly, he’d even maybe call the sensation butterflies.

Leonard laughs. “See you, Jim.”


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and finally--the canon compliant conclusion

Bones has an arm slung across Jim’s shoulders, Jim’s own arm wrapped around Bones’ waist. They’re practically glued together, and as drunk as they are it makes stumbling to their room that much more difficult. It’s a good drunk, though, not the same melancholic inebriation that’s plagued them for so long. Maybe it should be, given what they’ve all just been through. But they’re healing, Jim is healing, and Bones feels happier than he has in a while—probably because Jim looks happier than he has been.

The light’s back in Jim’s eyes, that light that shimmers like the stars he’s so eager to explore, bright and watery blue. The apple of his cheeks swell with his grins and Bones has missed the ridiculous delight on his lover’s face these last few months. Every time Jim grins like that, the way he has been for a solid week now, Bones wants to kiss him senseless. He usually does, because Jim has no objections.

“Bones, still with me?” Jim teases, and Bones realizes they’re at the door to their room. Jim clumsily keys in the code before dragging Bones inside. “That was nice,” he mumbles. “S’good, really good.” He kisses Bones chastely before continuing to ramble. “Did you see Spock n’Uhura? Think they worked it out?”

Bones shrugs. “Hope so,” he says honestly. He shrugs out of his jacket and undoes his pants so they hang low on his hips. Jim grins lewdly and starts to do the same, only to end up tangled in his own shirt and jacket. “Oh lord,” Bones murmurs before stepping up to help. “You amaze me, Jim” he says. And it’s true, because Jim is amazing—and not only because he can be a stellar Starfleet captain one moment and a total moron the next. That’s part of it, though.

Eventually, they’re stripped down to their boxers and stumble into bed, under the covers and wrapped up in one another. Jim settles in Bones’ arms and nuzzles against his smooth chest. “M’glad you’re okay, Bones. I was so worried.”

Bones’ heart skips a beat and he inhales sharply. “Worried about you too, Jim,” he says as he strokes the knobs of Jim’s spine. “Real glad you’re okay.”

Jim’s smile burns against his skin in the best way; the sensation is almost more intoxicating than whatever it was Chekov gave them at the party. “Love you, Bones, y’know that?”

“Yeah, I do, Jim. Love you too.”

Jim looks up finally and blinks sleepily, sluggishly. His breath reeks of booze but it only makes Bones want to kiss him more. “I know that look,” Jim teases. He even pinches Bones’ side, sending electric shocks of soft pleasure rippling across Bones’ skin. “You’re thinkin’ about how much you wanna kiss me.”

Bones raises an eyebrow. “Am I now?”

Jim nods, hair flopping about. “You should kiss me, Bones, that’s a good idea.”

Bones laughs but doesn’t object. He leans in, speaking quietly as he goes, “alright, captain.” He kisses Jim softly. It’s close-lipped and gentle, but makes Bones’ heart sore. He brings one hand from Jim’s back around to his front and lays his palm over Jim’s own rapidly pounding heart. “Could listen to this all night, forever,” Bones mumbles. He feels loose in his body, in his words, the world feels easy for the moment in a way they haven’t known for a while.

“Always,” Jim agrees. He nods again and Bones admires the way his hair has grown, the mature angle it lends to his face. He admires the slight wrinkles at the corners of Jim’s eyes, the laugh lines around his lips. He kisses Jim again, harder this time, and puts into it everything he’s too drunk, too tired to say.

“Still can’t believe you’re gonna keep me in space another five years—probably longer, god help me.” He teases, pulling back.

Jim snickers and brushes their noses together. “I think you kinda like space these days, all your grumping is for show.”

“No, no,” Bones insists, “hundred and ten percent genuine hatred of the deep unknown.”

Jim leans into the pillow and looks at Bones with heavy eyes. “You do it all for me, huh? Cuz I ask you to?”

“You don’t even gotta ask, you know that.” Bones sinks more into the bed, relaxes, and sleep tugs at him more insistently.

“I know,” Jim replies. “You know how much I appreciate that, right? How much I appreciate you?”

“Course I know,” he replies like it’s obvious.

Jim nods, assured. “Maybe after this next mission we can take some time off, get a position on Earth for a while.” His eyes slip shut but he keeps talking. “You could work at a hospital n’I… I could do something. Be an admiral for a while, maybe, who knows.” He grins suddenly and his body shakes with quiet laughter. “Or a house-husband, your kept boy.”

Lust stirs in Bones’ gut even though he’s far too exhausted to act on it. As a compromise, he leans over and steals another kiss. “Wouldn’t object to that. Could get a place with a nice pool, you could sit there lookin’ pretty in nothing but a pair of little trunks.”

Jim’s laughter grows stronger, louder. “Trophy husband,” he says between gasps. “Can you imagine?”

Bones shakes his head. “That’d last a hot second before you’d be itchin’ to do something other than stand there and look pretty.”

Jim’s mirth quiets again. “Yeah.” A pause stretches between them and for a moment, Bones thinks Jim has fallen asleep. Words eventually crack the silence. “We’ll figure it out when the time comes, we always do.” He looks at Bones for confirmation.

“Yeah,” Bones agrees. He reaches out and links their fingers, brings Jim’s knuckles so he can kiss at the still-healing bruises. “We always do.”

Jim grins, interrupted by a yawn.

“Sleep, now, doctor’s orders,” Bones commands around a yawn of his own. Jim pulls him closer, and together they fall asleep.


End file.
